Bateman Begins
by Cakie Cat
Summary: He was a creature of deceit, his identity as Bruce Wayne a greater deception than the masked pseudo-superhero worshiped as the dark knight. For the fictional "Mr. Wayne" was neither hero nor man: he was the damn Bateman. REVISED.


**_Bateman Begins_**

**"Dark Knight"-esque. Revised. **

I stood at the pinnacle of Gotham's tallest skyscraper, recalling the encounter with the bourgeoisie filth hidden inside the armpit of the city's underground transit. I did not care for chasing thieves or child molesters, but the crime of homelessness, of indolence, was a plague to society that I, as a moral man, could not ignore. I had felt it my moral duty to conceive a cure, to enact justice, stabbing him once in the heart and twice in the neck. I cringed at the memory, at the literal spilling of blood by my hand… I sorely hoped I had not caught a disease. It had, after all, been a long time since I had last played the game.

My skin prickled, and I closed my eyes. I felt compelled to drown my body in alcohol, but knew that alcohol destroyed skin texture…Tonight, I would redeem my body. I thought of _Cor_'s silver-enriched antibacterial soap, laced with sericin, a silk extract, and chitosan, for softer skin tone. I thought of the cool water washing away the filth of the day's events, of pointless handshakes and of justice served…the thought soothed me.

I centered myself, shifting my attention away from the city streets to my bone-crushing thighs and— with fluttering caresses—my eye-piercing pectorals. _Christ_, I breathed, awe-struck. The black contours of my suit engorged every muscle of my body, built like a god; my cape—austere and striking and not in the least "funny"—curled around me with the majesty of an emperor basking in the glory of conquest. I marveled at the brilliance behind Lucius Fox's design, for the man had done an exceptional job at finding the proper materials for a resilient, flexible, _modish_ combat suit. He was an extraordinary tool of his kind, capable of juggling the dimness of negro-hood _and _keeping his jungle instincts at bay. I could not have found in him a better associate, next to the child playing chief of police and the dead woman. _The dead woman_, the charred corpse.

_Rachel_. I stared blankly into the black abyss below, struggling with her memory. I tried to envision a more pleasant scenario, something about a blonde and a coat hanger, but the endeavor proved to be fruitless: just the thought of her, dead, by another man's hands, made me burn. Rachel, the redheaded nymph. The bitch who'd escaped. I tried to put her out of my mind, to instead focus on my pulsating steel nipples, but found that I could not. The memory seemed to me like a reoccurring nightmare, and I had to close my eyes.

Whether she had been aware of it or not, she had been mine. She was useless to me dead, but she had been _my_ property, not Harvey's. I repeated the phrase over and over in my mind like a cult-induced chant. I felt sick with myself, with my obsession, my being carried away…

I remembered inviting Harvey Dent to dinner under the guise of Bruce Wayne. He had agreed with a smile and a laugh, his handsome, open face gleaming with a kind of idiotic hopefulness reserved for only the biggest imbeciles in the business. But his eyes, more than anything, betrayed his ignorance: _How does one play the game?_ And under the pretense of collaborating with a certain masked vigilante, Gotham's white knight had enjoyed a few drinks and a few laughs at my expense, mentioning his rapport with the manager of _Dorsia's_—some whore—in a brief aside. I had pretended to listen to his nonstop blabber with the intensity of what he called a "goodtime pal," but by the end of the night, my mind had been elsewhere: I had thought of five different ways I could end his life, all with that disgusting toothpick lodged between his teeth. By the time he was on his third glass, talk of business was a lost cause.

I had brought him back to my apartment. He had laughed at my decorative taste, wondering if the newspapers on the ground or the plastic coverings on the furniture were in protection against some revolting domestic animal.

"…Do you like Huey Lewis and the News?" I remembered asking.

He had turned around, obviously drunk.

"In '87, Huey released this," I pointed to the cover, "_Fore!_, their most accomplished album._"_

The sound system was blasting with the artist's jazzy pop-rock single and the entire room felt alive. I was alive.

_I used to be a renegade,_

I danced back to the kitchen, gathering the essentials.

_I used to fool around._

"I think their undisputed masterpiece is "Hip to be Square", a song so catchy, most people probably don't listen to the lyrics."

Harvey turned back around, uninterested.

_You might think I'm crazy,_

_But I don't even care._

_'Cause I can tell what's going on,_

I continued, growing animated and full of hatred, "But they should, because it's not just about the pleasures of conformity and the importance of trends—it's also a personal statement about the band itself."

I smiled happily. "Hey, Harvey!"

_It's hip to be square!_

The axe crashed over his skull, spilling blood and brains onto the newspaper.

"Try getting reservations at Dorsia's now, you_ fucking_ stupid _bastard_!"

I had killed him. I had hacked him to pieces, roaring in triumph as the blood made a canvas of my face. I felt on the verge of an orgasm, my eyes bugged and toes curled as I beat him senseless. I had heard a gurgle, the sound of a man choking on his own blood, and it fueled me. I panted after every thrust, every movement of my arm, relentless and barbaric.

He was beyond dead by the time the beating had come to an end. I had left him bleeding on the floor, basking in the afterglow of the struggle. I sat down, faintly panting, lighting an expensive cigar. He was baggage, now.

I didn't care for baggage. No, my passion was in the rare captures of sheer joy that came with the physical exertion and the power-play; the split-second flashes it took for the living to cross the doorstep into death and the sweetness and the suffering that outlined each gate before the threshold. The power I held over him…Harvey, the face of purity and justice in Gotham; Harvey, the man who was so visibly superior that it frightened and enraged me. But I had not only eliminated the competition: I had eliminated a symbol.

I felt empowered. I was all that was left for Gotham. I opened my eyes. The petty bourgeoisie of the streets below scuttled like rats in a sewer, forever underneath the boot of the "Wayne" Corporation. It did, as I had hoped, bring me some comfort.

I turned my back on the sight before me. I would spare no pity for the weak. As I dropped to the buildings below, my awesome cape billowing in the cool, midnight air, I considered my plans for the future. I thought of the date I had tomorrow night, thoroughly disgusted: _Selena Kyle._

Tomorrow night I would not lose the play for power—I would remind her that she and all of Gotham faltered under the weight of my crushing finger. That was why I had to kill Harvey. That was how the game was played.


End file.
